The Duke, the Inquisitor, and their Assassin
by awilla the hun
Summary: An Inquisitor gathers his scattered band for one final mission; but faces, above all, the enemy from within.
1. The Assassin

This is the first chapter of what is tentatively titled 'The Duke, the Inquisitor, and their Assassin.' Even if it doesn't expand beyond this chapter, I think it touches on something that the Inquisition probably does all the time, but the novels strangely miss out on. If it does expand beyond the first chapter, expect a story firmly in the 40k tradition: action, adventure, grim darkness, the works. So, in what is astonishingly (I think) my first 'proper' 40k fic (I took a long time about it, despite being a devoted IG player and batrep writer for many years), lets go. Any reviews will be greatly appreciated.

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_Saggatarix V _

_The Lawford Duchy_

_Autumn_

He was, as observers had erroneously noted for many centuries, a quiet man. This was a cause of great frustration to, if nothing else, the driver of a carriage, owned by His Grace the fifth Duke of Lawford, who laboured under a false impression.

"I thought," she thought to herself, "that offworlders were more excitable!"

This not by any means the only false impression cultivated by his passenger, but this was of little comfort to the driver. Offworlders-tourists, by and large-would come here often, and they would ask questions, and they would gasp as they rattled over the Bridge of Guescanne d'Amprator, with all its pink marble arches, gazing down at the bottomless depths of the gorge below (designed in the 3rd century, 40th millennium; constructed in the _5__th_century, due to planning difficulties and civil war; finished in the 6th due to stone being diverted towards the strengthening of Hades Hive, Armageddon-yes, she'd done her homework alright, tourists loved this sort of thing, made 'em feel learned.) They would obligingly chuckle as she told them that the _fourth_ Duke had redesigned it, so as to please his mistress (whether the equine one, or the wife, she was not at liberty to say; a wink, a half smile, and that was all they needed to know; oh, and that new horse troughs were installed in the construction.) And, at the mention of this most generous and noble leader, ever caring about the travails of his subjects and beasts of burden, they would take note of their own humble subject and beasts of burden, and leave tips. Throne Gelt by the mountain! Enough to keep her wretched sons, who knew that tears could wring a mother dry, in sweetmeats and penny-dreadfuls for another few days. And even her servo-horses in oats and oil.

But this offworlder? Completely unflappable! Even though he looked to come from a desert world of some description, which didn't make any sense; only those from colder worlds (but not _too_ cold) had proper balances of humours, allowing good common sense. The barman at the _Grox Bone_ said so. As did His Grace the Duke of Lawford, who had served in the Imperial Guard, and was Of the Blood, and had Seen The Galaxy. But… there he was. Sitting there, his dark head hunched onto his chest, in the back seat, and not paying attention to a single word of wisdom flowing from the driver.

The Bridge of Guescanne d'Amprator provoked no gasps as they rattled over. His only remark about the horse troughs was that, judging from their current pace, the current Duke would do well to invest further in this direction, which wasn't very nice, and no Throne Gelt were to be found before the head crashed once more onto his chest. The much renowned Flower Gardens of Governor Theophilienne d'Escourt XXIV, even when they wound through the mouldering ruins of the crystal orchard, was singularly unpleasurable. No scenes of bucolic Saggitarrian peasantry toiling at their fields could draw out any words of delight at the Romantic vista (art craze, I mean art movement, if it pleases your honour, founded by the Saggitarrian Bernard Loughton, second cousin to the Duke, but by blood only; disowned due to his taste in cufflinks.) The ten kilometre Nalwoods of the Grove of Harmony, Concord and Imperial Cleansing? The Lawford estate's own forests and Lake Priscilla, in full autumn dress, as the carriage rolled up the slope, out especially to greet the guests to his ball? (Costed two villages and five hundred thousand sheep to get the Mechanicus in on it, but worth every last penny; the Governor's niece considered attendance for a great length of time, if the Court was to be believed.) All for nothing! The black head, in its black coat and black beard, remained firmly nestling on his chest, eyes gently closed.

"Alright then," the driver thought to herself, "nothing for it. _THIS _will get him, this quiet man." So she lashed at the horses, lathered them, swore softly at them, and the coach jerked onto its sidewheels as it spun round the final bend. A view to the left of precipitous cliff, pines clawing into it in desperation, fingerlike roots tearing at the moon-lit mountain, with the famous chalk lines slashing into the opposite side of the valley; to the right, the Manor Lawford itself, a pile of gilt stone and glaring gargoyles, a swarm of liveried coaches beneath it; each groaning under more jewels than the last, and that's just the coachmen. Each showing the Emperor's glory, and the descendants of the Emperor's chosen settlers, more than the last. Each showing His light. Surely, that…

Finally, a reaction! A wholehearted, positive, cheerful reaction! The quiet man's head tilted back, the deep-set eyes gazed out, and the whole edifice of him made a slow nod. This, the driver decided, was his equivalent of three cheers and tossing his hat in the air; so she smiled, toothily and ingratiatingly (she had a very nice smile; the Duke's juvenat made sure of that), and, tentatively:

"Was the journey to your satisfaction, your honour?" She presumed he was a 'your honour', as he had never revealed his name or title; indeed, a quiet man.

The quiet man replied that it had been.

"Do you wish to depart from your carriage, your honour?"

The quiet man replied that he did.

"Do you, your honour, wish…"

"I will gladly offer the tip you have for so long angled for. It was not cunningly done, but I admire persistence. Good night." The man, no longer so quiet, slammed a heap of coins onto the driver's palm, and strode off, adjusting his crevatte as he did so.

"Pleasure driving you, your honour," the driver said, before counting the coins. Best not to understand every whim of everyone she ever drove, she reckoned. Bloody nobs are bloody nobs, so take the money and pray. Strange one, that quiet man. Strange one…

The quiet man, after brushing the tails of his coat into shape, was observed by some present to check a dataslate. It was noted to be of a fine brass-and-wood finish, of the sort used in The Capital. The overwhelming majority of those present did not consider exactly what he was viewing on there-and most of those who did, being Men and Women of Society, naturally assumed that, as it was not being handled by a servant, it was a private matter. A mistress of some kind. The predominate focus of even the discussion of these perceptive ladies and gentlemen was whether the mistress was female or-the dark man obviously being an offworlder, albeit one knowledgeable of proprieties and fashion-male.

They were not, the quiet man thought to himself, returning to himself with a flicker of the warp, far wrong.

The Manor Lawford itself was an old place, built when The Saggatarrian's Home is His Castle had a literal meaning. It was star shaped, once designed to put attackers, who had already slogged to the top of a hill under the withering fire of heavy gun emplacements, to have to charge through enfillades and only then place their ladders and breaching charges. These days, when the visitors came by carriage and the heaviest pieces on public display were the rifles of gamekeepers, it presented an altogether more pleasing front. Nevertheless, the quiet man still faced, as he patiently joined the queue, a major obstacle to his arrival: a brace of servitors, burly fellows, standing before the Manor's ivy covered front gate. Outwardly, they merely made as if to take the coats of visitors. The quiet man, knowledgeable of such matters, had placed nothing objectionable under his coat; but he feared that they possessed a number of sensors. These, he felt, could prove somewhat detrimental to his entry.

Naturally, he showed no outward sign of anxiety. When engaged in conversation by the Lady Geronita Phipps, a formidable scion of the local gentry and in her own mind by far the area's keenest authority on the grox-hound, he merely smiled, shrugged apologetically, and explained that he was a foreigner.

"Another continent?" The Lady Geronita Phipps eyed him suspiciously.

"Another world, I fear. Tallarn." The quiet man bowed.

"Sand wallahs' country?"

"It is a desert world, yes. The hunting, I am sure, is not so… ah, what is the word…"

The Lady Geronita Phipps, to the quiet man's well concealed relief, had many of them, all chosen with great personal consideration. This allowed him to adjust his outward attention to her daughter, the Lady Ashmelia Phipps. The Lady Ashmelia, he found, to be of a quiet disposition herself, a pair of spectacles balanced on the end of a pert nose. The face was round, the eyes an inviting blue-but it was all but impossible to tell anything else beneath the layers of corsetage, powder and hairpiece.

Nevertheless, he caught her eye, and smiled briefly. Inured to the excesses of her mother, she returned the smile and-this, the quiet man found, was all too easy to behold under the layers of corsetage, power and hairpiece-blushed. They continued thus down the gravel drive to the doors, the Lady Geronita talking all the while about the hounds, and the doings of her relatives in the highest of ranks, and the purchase of guns, and the quiet man glanced up to notice that a window on the upper floors, which had been previously open, had closed when he had stepped into a patch of light. He internally cursed himself for his lack of observance-and nodded understandingly when it emerged that the Lord Dartforst, the swine, had been geno-boosting his destrier before entering the Great Equiline, that renowned series of horse races.

"And what _exactly_ is your business here, in any case?" The Lady Geronita inquired as they closed with the gate.

It was a private matter, it transpired, between the Duke and himself. But, if her ladyship must know, it concerned the health of his son. This seemed, for a few brief moments, to quieten her, before she launched into sober reflection about the damnable state of doctors nowaways, and these foreign quacks, excluding yourself of course, Doctor-

"My name is Prewellyn, my Lady." He offered her his card, which displayed (in elegant capitals) his name, rank, business address (a small practice in The Capital), and a handful of moderately respectable clients. The best people, he hastened to assure her, that the Middling Sort could provide.

It was at this stage in the proceedings that the Lady Ashmelia, finally bursting into speech, inquired as to whether Doctor Prewellyn had, in his long and distinguished practice, ever treated any 'social diseases'. The Doctor being unfamiliar with the exact term, the Lady Ashmelia demonstrated great willingness (much to the disturbance of her mother, also unfamiliar with such language) to explain. Doctor Prewellyn had never, in all his long and distinguished practice, displayed quite such relief at approaching security servitors as he did then.

He stepped smartly between them, touched his tricorne to them (provoking a polite chuckle from all present), and-turned, cursing slightly. "Dear me! My stick! My Lady, it's fallen right by you, if you would be so good…"

The Lady Ashmelia, blushing, passed the cane to his outstretched hand. He smiled, took hold of it, brandished the length of it between the servitors, and offered an arm to the Lady Ashmelia as she took her turn.

It was the belief of the quiet man who called himself Doctor Prewellyn that no one had noticed how the pommel of his cane had never passed between the sensors. A handful noted that, as it was an advanced model from The Capital, the length telescoped up into the pommel, allowing him to pocket it and stride away to the ballroom without it being taken with his greatcoat; but they, in the quiet man's belief, merely quietly applauded this latest form of gadgetry.

The ballroom matched the manor. It was old, and gaudy, and groaning under the strain. Tapestries competed with banners, which were elbowed aside by oil paintings, which in turn were sent packing by ugly modernity in the form of holo projectors, displaying the military prowess of The Duke, and his regiment, in equal measure. It may perhaps be argued by the artistically minded that a man charging down several snarling daemons on horseback, sabre held aloft, was not the most appropriate accompaniment by which one could dance with one's neighbours, or eat dinner; but, nevertheless, they demonstrated quite firmly the nature of the man of the house, and his loyalty to the God Emperor.

Doctor Prewellyn, upon taking a circuit of the ballroom with the Lady Ashmelia (her mother, as rapidly as her augmetics would allow, retired to the gambling hall, and was not to be seen for the rest of the evening), for his part sat upon a chair near the side. He engaged in polite conversation with her Ladyship-the vagaries of the weather, of the doings of the Capital, and the eccentricities of his patients (which, although nameless, proved to be as charmingly diverse as they were largely fabricated.) He longed, he claimed, for the warmth of the desert sands again-but he was alas a man of medicine. The Lady Ashmelia was about to venture that, perhaps, this strange foreigner might accompany her to the Manor's bath-house, which she knew to be most refreshing for the chilled body, when found that the doctor was no longer speaking to her, but to a pair of gentlemen in sober attire.

"If you would be so good as to accompany us, sir? It appears that you have a vox communication." The first, wearing with pride the moustaches of Lawford's old regiment, the 21st Emperor's Saggitarrian Rifles, was gesturing away from the ballroom.

"Any indication as to who sent it? A client, perhaps?"

"It was said," said the second, wearing with pride an eyepatch most likely earned with service in the aforesaid regiment, "to be most urgent."

Both, the quiet man noted, had slight bulges in their armpits.

"Of course." He turned to the Lady Ashmelia, rose, and bowed. "Apologies, my lady." She offered her hand. He took it, kissed it dryly, and turned to depart.

Neither of the two gentlemen, the doctor found, could be brought to conversation. He was led from the ballroom, in its candle-lit splendour, and into a long succession of nal-panelled corridors. More portraits jostled for his attention, but he paid them little heed; here one of the Duke's ancestors, there a piece of Imperial allegory. He predominately directed his attention to memorising the route he was taking, and considering how far he was above the ground.

The only exception was an image of a goshawk, just taking flight into a sunrise. This, although small and plain, kept his gaze for some moments.

He tried, once more, to discuss his predicament with the gentlemen.

"The portrait interests you, Doctor? It is a work by the Duchess herself." The gentleman with the eyepatch nodded briskly. "A fine lady. Artistic temperament. You will wait here, sir." They had arrived in a small alcove occupied by an armchair and a white marble statue of the God-Emperor of Man.

The Doctor seated himself, checked his pocket chron and, although he had never asked about the portrait, felt pleased with his questioning.

From the door opposite, he could hear the sound of a cello playing.

"I recall reading," he remarked, "that the actual statues of ancients were painted."

The gentleman with the eyepatch replied that it was not his position to say.

"Perhaps this way is wiser. The policy of truth and honesty revealing His light."

The gentleman with the moustache jerked forward, face crimson, and hissed that, coming from you, it would be ironic indeed-

"Come now, Mr. Fix," said the gentleman with the eyepatch. "His lordship is concluding the practice of his instruments. We would not want to disturb him."

"Indeed not. Especially with the sounds of those pistols you keep about you." The doctor raised an eyebrow. "For all the use they would be."

Both of the gentlemen in sombre attire looked as if they were about to say more; but the doctor knew that the piece was coming to an end, and was therefore saved by the door swinging open.

"Thank you very much, my son, that was most delightful. Quite superb. The orchestra would be glad to have you among them tonight. Now, bow, there's a good lad, and run along to the nursery…"

His Grace the Duke of Lawford was an aging man, despite the juvenat the doctor knew he frequently applied. He was grey of close-cut hair, grey of augmetic eye and hand, grey of the hilt of the dress sword at his side. But he was now standing behind his desk, having just finished applauding the efforts of a small boy, golden of hair, struggling under the weight of his cello as servitors hastened to collect it. The gentleman with the eyepatch reached him first, and (with the production of sweetmeats) helped him to pack the instrument into its case.

"Thank you, Mr. Quick, but I request that you remain here for our guest. D'you understand? Good, good." The Duke strode over. "And what, my son, do you say to Mr. Quick?"

"Thank you, Mr. Quick."

"Excellent. Now, away with you, I have business to conduct." The Duke strode over to the doctor, who had half risen, and was watching the boy quite intently. "Isn't that so?"

The doctor rose, and bowed. "Indeed it is, your Grace. My name is Prewellyn. Doctor Lancelot Prewellyn, at your-."

"I am aware, of that." The Duke paused. "You have also neglected to bow to His Lordship." He gestured towards his son, at that point sucking the sugar off his fingers. The son froze guiltily.

The Doctor bowed to him. "My apologies, My Lord."

"Qu-quite alright, my good man, quite alright." His Lordship, servitors following, backed out of the room, half tripped over his dress-sword, and half- fled down the corridor.

The Duke sighed, and gestured for the doctor to enter. "Mr. Quick, Mr. Fix. You have done well."

The door closed behind the doctor, as he entered, with a sharp click.

The doctor indicated the chair facing the desk, a music stand still before it. "May I sit, Your Grace?"

"You may," the Duke replied, remaining standing.

The doctor sat, and scrutinised the music-book. "Monzcarro's 4th Movement. A most complicated tune."

The Duke smiled. "Dam' fine fellow, isn't he?"

"Not to my taste, regrettably. I prefer choirs."

"Ah. Well, once this business is all sorted out, you will be doubtless delighted to know that I hired one from the Capital especially for the evening to Rouse Our Spirits in Joyful Worship of the Emperor, and even-who knows-entertain us." The Duke, with a well practiced gesture, offered the doctor his cigarette case.

"No, thank you. This business, your Grace?"

"Indeed. The business." The Duke began to pace, lighting up as he did so. "You see, Doctor, you have arrived. And yet I do not recall ordering such a professional as yourself. My son, you must understand, is in perfect health."

"That," the Doctor replied, "is not my understanding of the situation."

The Duke raised his single remaining eyebrow. "Indeed? Would you kindly explain just why, when I investigated this anomaly, the dam' cogboy found that a certain Doctor Prewellyn had been added to the guestlist by some mountebank data-jumper no less than four days after it had been sent out?"

"Most impressive," the Doctor said, rising to his feet and reaching into his pocket. He heard Messrs Quick and Fix reach into their own, but ignored them.

The Duke smiled. "The problem with your sort, whoever you are, is that you never expect anyone else to have half a brain left to them. And I prefer my ceremonial swords powered, so I do hope that you weren't trying anything untoward, doctor."

"But of course. I was merely offering my card." Doctor Prewellyn slowly, easily, withdrew his hand from his pocket, to reveal that he was holding a business card quite unlike those he had previously displayed.

"A rosette," The Duke said. He leaned closer, augmentic eye whirring. "Inquisitorial. It appears genuine."

"Indeed. I shall not tell you my genuine name." The Inquisitor shrugged apologetically. "It must be concealed for professional reasons."

"Quite so. Quite. I've had dealings with your sort before. But I do recall encountering a black-skinned fellow, about your height, claiming to be a military surgeon, attached to the 4th Tallarn Lancers, who had a habit of turning up in the most unlikely places- still, no matter. I cannot possibly remark as to whether he is, or is not, the same man." The Duke smiled. "Mr. Fix, Mr. Quick, if you would fetch a drink for the Doctor?"

"Amasec, I thank you." The Inquisitor heard the padding of one set of feet towards the drinks' cabinet. "Could the second fellow lower his sidearm? It adds a certain element of discomfort to the proceedings."

The Duke made a signal, and the Inquisitor heard a weapon being holstered. "Thank you. And the third one…"

The Duke's face was expressionless. "The third one?"

"Your Grace, do not lie to me. I detected a third person watching this room, right now. It guarded itself carefully, as a trained agent. Your security is impressive, but stand it down."

"Ah." The Duke's face wrinked into a smile. A questioning smile. "That would be the Duchess. A custom of ours' means that the wife can't visit my study without his permission, and… well, it's all very confusing for foreigners, but she's watching through that tapestry over there. Yes. Should she be present? She is an important figure in managing my estate-"

It was the Inquisitor's turn to smile. "I believe she is about to make that decision for herself, Your Grace, by leaving her hiding place and-if those are her feet I can hear in the corridor-make her entrance."

Right on cue, the door to the study opened again. It was occupied, almost in entirety, by a pearl-grey ballgown. From within it, a pale-skinned, dark haired face protruded. The face, for a moment, beamed in recognition-and then froze, and reassembled itself. The ballgown curtsied, and offered a glove.

"No need for that, your Grace, I am but a humble surgeon," the Inquisitor said, bowing and kissing the proffered hand. But he rose his eyes, and met those of the Duchess. The look they exchanged was not lost on the Duke.

"He's nothing of the sort, my dear, and well you know it." The Duke fumbled once more for his cigarette case, dropped it, and then his lighter. "You know each other of old, I see? Priscilla?"

The Duchess, whose name was indeed Priscilla Lawford, raised her eyes and smiled. "Yes. The 'Doctor' is a very old friend of mine, husband."

"Ah." The Duke sat down, straddling the Inquisitor's vacated chair. "Ah…" he rummaged around for his cigarettes, and his lighter, and offered them in a fistful to his wife.

She accepted, and clicked it open, face radiant beneath the powder.

"I see," said the Duke.

He gazed around, a soldier bereft of orders.

"I-"

"Not in any improper way," the Inquisitor said, still holding the Duchess' hand, but now facing the Duke.

"I see," said the Duke. But he still sat, and turned about. His eye, for a moment, lingered on the draw of his desk where he kept his duelling pistols.

"Now, Your Grace," said the Inquisitor. He accepted the amasec from Mr. Fix, and took a sip. "Exquisite. My compliments to your excellent taste."

"Mine, actually," said the Duchess. Her face was not yet powdered for the ball. The Inquisitor took in its glorious smile, its aquiline nose, and wondered. "I handled all that sort of thing."

"You use the past tense…" The Duke, after requesting a glass of brandy, rose and strode over to the other side of the desk.

"I misspoke, Miles dear," the Duchess replied. "Although not, perhaps, by such a great margin."

"Indeed not. You received my message." The Inquisitor flashed the Duke a brief, winning smile. "You didn't quite check everywhere, Your Grace."

"I see." The Duke snapped his fingers, and one of the Misters departed. "Now. What can I do for you, Inquisitor?" He stood tall behind his desk, in military posture, his single eye alert, watchful. "What can the House Lawford do for you?"

"It is your Duchess, Your Grace, who I need. She has served me of old as a marksman. I have need of her services once more." The Inquisitor rubbed his temples. "This may, I appreciate, come as a shock to you."

"It is not, of course, impossible. I am sure that she, a soldier's wife, will lay down her life for the Emperor if necessary." The Duke's face, once more, was expressionless. "But I can point you to a thousand other veterans of mine, all in need of paid work, and all excellent shots. Why do you insist upon my wife?"

"Because, Miles Augustus Lawford, I know him of old." The Duchess looked into her husband's eyes. "You would trust one of your veteran riflemen over a new recruit now, wouldn't you?"

"These days," he replied, "I confess to uncertainty about anyone and everyone I meet." He lit another cigarette.

"Well," the Duchess said, uncoiling her arm from the Inquisitor's and walking gently over to her husband, "I suppose there's an entire ball in which we can regain that, isn't there?"

He looked over to her, and nodded. "Yes. We have our guests to attend to. You, doctor, will arrive thus…"

It was widely agreed that the ball held by His Grace the Fifth Duke of Lawford, in the ninety-sixth year of the eight century, forty-first millennium, was among the greatest of its kind that Saggitarix V had ever had. Not, perhaps, in terms of scale; but the quality of the decoration of the ballroom, the standard of the music (with His Grace's son being in particular praised, not least by his father), and the sumptuous banquet afterwards, all proved a testament to the impeccable taste of the Lawfords, and their great industry in improving a duchy so recently ravaged by the Patriotic War. Although it was a relatively minor country gathering, it was nevertheless well received by all present. The Duke was observed to lead the dancing, along with the Duchess, in the highest spirits; despite the fact that both of them sported augmetics, testament to their meeting in an old siege some years ago, they nevertheless conducted themselves most competently. Also present was that young dancing master, the Count Rax, who demonstrated a number of new styles, which were from (of course) The Capital. It was often used as an example, in later, lesser days, of how things should be done by the rulers of society.

As for Doctor Prewellyn, he was noted as a minor presence of low rank, who spoke predominately the Lady Ashmelia (save for one occasion when he and the Duchess managed to dance with one-another.) He was last seen retiring with the Lady Ashmelia to the Agelian Wing, which lay quite near the Duke's bath-houses.

The Duke, on his part, retired with his wife to their chambers. They slept little. They said much.

The next morning, after most of the guests had gone, the Duke suggested to his wife, and to the Inquisitor (who had emerged, from the Saints and Emperor knew where, perfectly attired and groomed), that they went for a hunt; just a pleasant morning's shooting, you understand. "Not like the dog-hunting that dam'fool Phipps laps up, not that it does one well to speak such of one's neighbours. D'you have the time, Doctor?"

The Doctor, glancing up from the morning's _Courant_ and dissecting his kippers, decided that he had ample time, but unfortunately no gun. This was soon remedied, and the three of them-The Duke, the Inquisitor, and their Assassin-were soon to be found roaming the Lawford Estates, in tweeds and plus fours, on the watch for cyber-fowl. The Duke's son was too young to participate himself, but was permitted to watch at a distance, from the front gate of the Manor, through the Duke's magnoculars. The chance of using his father's very own war-scuffed set, which had sighted so many enemies of man, understandably mollified the lad for the time being.

The Inquisitor was, at best, an indifferent marksman with the rifle. The Lawford fowl did their best to make things easy for him; but he preferred to fire off his two barrels as quickly as possible, smile thinly if he scored a hit, and watch the Lawfords pick off birds like the Guard trained riflemen they were. After a close-fought running fight that raged through the woods, down the mountainside and across the eaves around Lake Priscilla, Her Grace ultimately emerged triumphant, despite laughingly accusing her husband of utilising the targeting sensors of his bionic eye.

The Duke grinned rogueishly. "Well, one never knows what your type has at their fingertips, so pot and kettle as I see it." He aimed at a bird, half-breathed before firing, and missed. Her Grace laughed delightedly. "Long shot, and the windage…" the Duke looked down at the gun, opened the breech and searched his case for more shells.

"There was no such thing. Remember how we met, Miles?" The Duchess shouldered her gun, as a shoulder with his lasgun, and snapped to attention like a guardsman.

"We do, and have discussed it at length. Doctor Prewellyn here, however, may not. It was the Haven Siege, sixty-two years and four weeks ago. I was a Major in the Rifles, recalled from offworld service to defend my homeland against the heathen Tau. She was a new sniper to the regiment, just joined. A luckless ex-serf, banished to the hills with a hunting rifle against the xenos-that's how I thought her on sight. I wasn't far wrong." The Duke smiled at the memory, and froze. "Or maybe I was. Minor nobility, on hard times, from a razed village, ran as the first Mantas came. That is what she told me on our first night together. She danced for me, then. And sang."

The Inquisitor counted the time. And three years before then, in my service. Interesting.

"And some day, Miles Augustus Lawford, I will dance for you again. And sing." She saluted, and kissed him on the cheek. "As I always have done."

"Indeed." The Duke embraced her, and there remained for a long time.

At length, they let relinquished each other. "You're certainly up to stuff with the longarm, Priscilla. You'll be quite safe." The Duke had been holding his gun all the while, and checked the breech.

"Never quite safe," the Inquisitor replied, "but you may depend upon it that I shall, within reason, keep her from overt harm."

"Naturally." The Duke loaded his gun with a decisive snap. "How long, Inquisitor? And how far?"

"I cannot say. And not too far. This system, I think. And that is more than you have any right to know."

"I see." The Duke made a show of checking his map, although he knew the hunting route off by heart. "This one will carry us on for another three quarters of an hour, if you are interested..."

By midday, the hunt concluded, and the Inquisitor, relieved to find that Her Grace's packing had already been conducted, decided that they had to be off. A picnic hamper was soon arranged, and his carriage was brought forth. The Duke and his son were both present to wave them off, the son still clutching his magnoculars.

The Inquisitor stood back, to watch their farewells. It seemed, as the Duke and Duchess both explained to their son, that mama would be away for a few weeks for medical reasons to do with her nerves. This man-yes, his face is rather funny, isn't it-is a Doctor of Medicine, who is going to look after her at a special clinic. Now, you behave yourself while she's gone, keep up in your lessons, wash behind your ears, there's a good lad…

The Inquisitor had by this point taken a few nips from his hipflask, for the autumn weather had taken a turn for the worse. He shook the Duke's hand, and the son's with exaggerated respect. He then led the Duchess to the carriage, negotiating the large quantity of un-cleared horse dung which inevitably congregated in these driveways, and helped her aboard. She chose to wear a simple riding habit and jodhpurs, so this was mercifully straightforward. Then, with a final wave, they rolled away. The driver, it was noted, had the good sense to remain silent this time.

The Duke remained at the entrance for some time, as his servitors cleared the muck, watching the carriage roll into the distance. He then, turning to his son, requested the return of his magnoculars.

The boy gave them to him, and the Duke, extending them to their maximum focus, gazed down at the coach.

It was impossible to hear the exact content of their conversation; but the old, powerful lens easily penetrated the coach's smoked windows. And the two within it were sharing a toast, arms around each other's shoulders, and laughing uproariously.

The Duke returned his magnoculars to his son, spun on his heel, and strode back into the Manor Lawford. He would join his son presently for luncheon; he had a few vox calls to make, and had to meet with Mr. Fix and Mr. Quick.

It may be of interest that the Lady Ashmelia awoke to find herself alone, abandoned in the bath-house and quite naked. She wondered the Manor at great length, dressed in a discarded and sopping bathrobe, before finally being rescued by Mr. Quick. Her mother, it transpired, had left past midnight, cursing the idle feckless ways of the modern youth after having won a most satisfactory sum at baccarat. The Doctor Prewellyn was nowhere to be found; it seemed that he had left some hours ago. No, he had left no message for her Ladyship.

A carriage was arranged, as was a spare dress which used to belong to the Duchess. She made her thanks, and left in tears, thankful that the dress was a sober black.

She never visited the Manor Lawford again.


	2. The Coachman

It was on the fourth night his travels with Priscilla when the Inquisitor finally lost his coachman.

The coachman-the same woman, coincidentally, who had first driven him to the Manor Lawford- had been observed, when they stopped at a coaching inn referred to as _The Standfast_, to linger for a while after getting the geno-horses stabled. Her head, although for a time in her hands, ultimately rose like an artillery piece being sighted; and, resolutely, firmly, she strode off into the night.

Her absence was first noted by the Inquisitor; the Duchess, perhaps taking servants for granted after decades of marriage, raised an eyebrow as he lept to his feet and stormed over to the bar's shutters.

"Something wrong, Prewellyn?" she asked, looking up from the day's _Courant_; they now, although it was admittedly difficult to travel incognito in as well appointed a carriage as the Duke's, were making an attempt at secrecy.

"Why, nothing much, Prissy. I suppose you can't get the staff nowadays." The Inquisitor flung open the shutters, and gazed out into the night. He remained there for a few moments, the winds howling. "Ah. There." He pointed. A flash of something on the opposite hillside. Moonlight on a belt buckle, perhaps, or on the coachman's horse pistols. "She was to meet us five minute ago. This has not occurred. She bolted, Prissy."

Prissy, upon leaving to check this for herself, immediately returned and asked the Inquisitor to assist with a pursuit of the quarry (those being her exact terms.) The Inquisitor was against it, on grounds of secrecy; so the pair of them retired to their private chambers, and reflected on why the coachman might have left the service of the Inquisition.

"Well," Prissy began, "she was never one of our best servants." She rolled over on the double-bed, and reached for the wine.

The Inquisitor was certain that she was not; indeed, he was surprised when he had found his favourite sniper to have been using servants in the first place.

"Whyever not? After years of travelling the galaxy and dodging las-bolts, I just wanted a normal life." Prissy smiled, stretched, shrugged. "Well, a normal life with expensive tastes."

"And a title."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "And a husband I first met in a warzone. Which, by our standards, is pretty normal."

"Perhaps." The Inquisitor considered this. He remembered the stiff, conscientious lieutenant of the Rifles he had first met on-what was the world called again?

"Selekan Prime. And having people at my beck and call, now, is certainly normal by _some _of our standards."

"You mean my own, I suppose?"

"By the authority of the God-Emperor of-"

"Be still, someone could be listening."

Which, after a time, they concluded could have been the root cause of their problem with the staff.

"We initially swore her to secrecy."

"Yes." A pause, slight, but there. "Yeees."

The Inquisitor went on. "And, thus secured, we discussed our former acquaintance."

"Which, amazingly, some people may find unnerving."

Rain pattered against the shutters, like the fingers of the dead.

It had been quite a discussion. Battles lost and won. A bar on the Singing Spires of Lorkas VII, looking out over the bays below as the world's final sunset began, a harpsichord playing all the while. (Which tune was a matter of debate.) Painting classes. A goshawk, which Priscilla had kept. And…

"Well, there were some aspects of the discussion which, strictly speaking, should not have been spoken at all."

"The demonic ones."

The Inquisitor said nothing. He just nodded, slowly.

"That coachwoman," Priscilla began again. "She is in open country. Alone."

The Inquisitor nodded. He rose, and began to dress.

"We should, maybe…"

"Take steps."

"For the greater good."

"Yes."

"Quite."

"Quite."

"She was never… one of my best servants. And very, very talkative, but for Throne's sake please we don't have to kill her."

But the Lady Priscilla was already on her feet, reaching into one of her larger cases, and producing what resembled, to the untrained eye, a number of wood-and-brass components that could be used for anything. A music stand, perhaps.

Alas, it was neither of those things, but a fowling piece. One which she concealed under the skirts of her cloak, just as the Inquisitor concealed his pistols, as they set out into the night.

At this time in, the Saggitarrian system had a number of unique classifications for its firearms. A fowling piece could mean any number of things, for fowl varied widely. In this case, it was a long lasrifle, chased in brass and finely carved of nal-wood from Old Tanith. It was accurate, in daytime in skilled hands, to a distance of several miles. And, despite its length of over five feet, the Duchess handled it expertly. For the Lawfords were nothing if they were not martially inclined.

It was designed to be of little encumbrance in a long hunt, which was fortunate. The tracks were soon discovered, leading into the hills. Priscilla, who had hunted men for a long time, and knew the victim well, suggested that she was in a state of panic. The Inquisitor agreed.

But it is in the matter of pistols where the most confusion can arise. There were three main categories, which will be explained as follows.

There are duelling pistols. They are impressive looking, long, ornate and highly accurate, but designed to wound, to humiliate with low-power las rounds, rather than to kill. They are the weapons of a gentleman, who has to deal in matters of honour. The Inquisitor possessed a pair of these, of common wood furnishings. His, whilst accurate and extremely impressive, fired bolt shells. To merely humiliate a target was rarely enough for him.

But a duelling pistol is not a reliable weapon. The gentleman typically fights in clement weather conditions, on mutually agreed ground. As the chill seeped into his heavy wool coat, therefore, the Inquisitor fretted. He chewed at his scarf, glared at the next hill, and gripped his cane tightly.

Despite his best efforts, Priscilla noticed that he had started to shiver. She did not mention it. She knew him well.

Time passed. Slowly.

Then there are horse pistols. These are large calibre guns, often bell mouthed to fire scattershot, and are often military issue. They can be carried on horseback, and are extremely deadly at close quarters. They were also issued to the armed servants of the House Lawford, for the Lawfords were nothing if they were not martially inclined.

And one of them was encountered lying by a low stone wall, used to demarcate a field of tubers. The mud dribbling up the wall, and the scraps of black cloak found upon it, suggested that the weapon's wielder had just vaulted it in some haste.

"Our servants," Priscilla said, already slithering quietly over the wall, "have a brace of these." She gestured for the Inquisitor to take the gate, a few yards downhill. To flank a gunman's line of fire, for the field beyond was fallow, and completely bare.

They both advanced five paces. Five squelching paces, across an open field, with a copse of little trees beyond it, and the wind pouring rain into their faces, and all the world able to see their every movement for miles around, if there was enough light for it. There was not, but both had met enemies before which would not have cared in the slightest. They made their five paces, bent double, and both froze.

For, in the trees, they saw light.

Priscilla turned and signalled at the Inquisitor with an elegantly gloved hand. _A fire. Recently lit. Take left._

Both therefore, regretting the damage done to their fine clothes, crawled through the mud and into the trees.

There wasn't a convenient clearing, they saw as they approached. They were on a hilltop, and the trees were mostly stripped bare by the scouring weather. The fire was guttering under the storm, but it was being determinedly re-lit by a gas lighter.

The Inquisitor, approaching from the left, spotted her first. Their coach-driver, huddling under a clutch of roots, bundled in what remained of her cloak. As on their drive to the Duke's ball, she was talking like a gatling. But the subject matter was quite different this time.

"Tale of demons and witchery and Barrabas and sorcery and by the saints and primarch its blooming cold, and please let me go, oh Emperor please, and I hope I saw them off. That they don't follow. Can't see why. Won't tell a soul. Won't tell anyone anything. He seemed such a quiet man. Not the sort to do that sort of muck, but he's a foreigner. They all do. Damn flask. Damn horses. Damn everything. Just want to go home. Please, just…"

She had not seen them, the Inquisitor was sure of that. He began to crawl closer, and drew the first of his pistols. But a man who uses a cane is not one who can move silently.

The cane snapped a twig.

And the woman jumped to her feet, whipping out a pistol. Her hand shook.

"Show yourself! Show yourself, in the name of the God-Emperor!" she shrieked.

Nothing.

"Look, look, if you're one of… them, then… then be-begone!" She recocked her horse pistol, click-click. "I will use this! I mean it, I'll use this! And my faith is my shield!"

Nothing.

She began to pray. The Litany Against the Mutant. "Emperor, let Your undeniable light burn on the mis-mishapen and the-"

"Madam," the Inquisitor said, rising suddenly from the trees, "you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension."

The coachwoman tightened her lips, and the grip on her pistol. "That you are… a mutant?"

The Inquisitor ignored her question. "That your defiance will do you any good."

"P-perhaps not. I mean, oh please, oh by the Emperor please, forgive me, I ran, I was a coward, I won't tell a soul-"

"But, Madam, you have told a soul. You have told the winds and elements about us, you have shouted our every action to the world In your dreary, miserable chatter. And our adversaries, unlike your passengers, will doubtless care. They will-"

Then the world seemed to turn to thunder, as the woman pulled the trigger of her pistol. "Look, just fake away off!" She cried. "Leave me alone!"

She closed her eyes when she fired. A common mistake. But at this range, with that much buckshot, she could hardly miss, and…

She opened her eyes. The Inquisitor lay before her. She breathed again, at last, heart pounding-

The Inquisitor rose to his feet, there was the crack of a las-shot, and she knew no more.

Priscilla pounded across the field, guardsman fashion, legs pumping. "Prewellyn!" she called. "Prewellyn! No, don't you stand, you're the worst damn doctor ever!" She reached him, saw his coat shredded by shot, saw him leaning on his cane.

But he was very much alive. "I am quite alright. She was a most inexpert shot. Yes. A most inexpert shot. We're getting rusty." He laughed, and only then did he relax. "Haven't done this in a long while."

They both laughed, holding each other close. Priscilla hadn't noticed how the Inquisitor, facing the pistol, had gripped his cane and just _stepped_, when no man should have been able to.

Prewellyn, on his part, failed to notice how, as her eyes fell upon the body of one of her servants, head gone from her own las-rifle, they filled with tears.

Finally, if we may return to weapons, there are belt pistols. These are firearms designed to be concealed, hidden under one's coat. They are not elegant things, but they serve a purpose. Such was the weapon carried by a horseman, dressed in black, who watched the Inquisitor, and his Assassin from a distance. He considered the pair of them, and began to whistle a tune. Unlike the Inquisitor, and his Assassin, he knew exactly what it was.

This concluded, he rode back into the night.

The two travellers were observed by few when they returned from their excursion, save for a cat with an augmentic eye. This served as security, ratcatcher and household pet, and was considered highly. The travellers woke early, and discussed their next move; for now they had no coachman.

Priscilla remarked, after much drinking of tea laced with amasec, that she could drive.

So, in much the same doom-laden tones, did the Inquisitor.

"Wherever we are headed."

"The Capital," the Inquisitor replied.

This was a respectable ride away: a period of weeks.

"Miles would be pleased. His fine lady headed to Town, rather than mouldering in obscurity." Priscilla considered further. "We could, I suppose, use Marcus Mallory."

The Inquisitor froze.

"He survived, do you know that?"

"I did, yes. But he is light years away, surely…"

Priscilla shook her head. "As a matter of fact, he's in a monastery twenty five miles away. Well, I say in… he is around that sort of area. And he was our preferred fellow for matters of transportation before."

"He has given up, hasn't he?"

"Well, make him un-give up. Better him than some hireling from this inn-no offence meant, waitress, none at all."

"The Monastery of… well, which one? There are several in these parts." The Inquisitor had moved to the edge of the Lawford lands; this particular area, according to the _Countryman's Genteel Guide_ which he had propped open, was referred to dismissively as 'The Holy Land'. The Fashionable Man, it seemed, paid for indulgences in this area, for prayers on his behalf. He did not visit it himself, unless he felt the need, for some reason, to feel blessed.

"The Blessed Wulferic."

"I was intending to visit the Blessed Wulferic myself, as a matter of fact. To receive blessings. We can combine the purposes. Excellent."

This was agreed, ultimately, as a practical course of action.

"But still," the Inquisitor said, sighing, "one of us needs to drive."

There was a pause.

"We'll take turns," Priscilla said, holding his hand. And then, bravely: "I shall go first."

It goes without saying that neither of these Inquisitorial agents, although doubtless accomplished and talented in many ways, had never driven themselves before by a Saggitarrian carriage with a pair of powerful, proud-striding geno-horses in front.

The _Country Gentleman's Genteel Guide_ advised that the journey from here to the Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic would take perhaps a day by good carriage. Two days, four hours, and sixteen minor collisions later, and the pair were finally confident of their carriage-driving skills.

They were fortunate indeed that the roads around here were almost entirely empty, for the great pilgrim seasons were in the summer. The Saints, it seems, were all fair weather men with regards to their miracles, conveniently allowing the humble travellers to come to holy days when the roads were in good condition, and to take their exercise in pleasant, sun-dappled glades listening to the choirs and prayers of the clergy in perfect harmony with the songs of birds. They would then leave their meagre donations, and return blessed.

"So," Priscilla asked from her perch on the coachman's seat, "who else?" She tugged at the reins, and cheered as they swung around another corner. The road was twisting now, rising up a hedge-lined slope. The hedges were overgrown, and tugged at her hat.

"I'm sorry?" a wary voice called up from within the carriage. "And slow down, please."

"Who else are you going to be meeting with?"

"I'll tell you in due course." The Inquisitor, however, considered his list. He had his Assassin. He would have a Coachman, Emperor Willing. Not the one he had hoped for, but he would serve. He needed his Seer, his Tehnologist, his Priest.

And Another.

He considered this, and for a brief moment, thought he heard a tune. He had no notion of what it was.

And the coach swerved. "Be out of our way!" he heard from the top. He glanced out of the window. A ancient mendicant, in ragged robes, sprawled in a ditch. His staff was broken, and an eye was lost; but he still shook his fist at the coach as it passed, and cursed them loudly in a most unholy manner, and there was something in his manner which the Inquisitor _remembered._

"Mallory?" he called.

The head snapped around, and saw him.

"It is you, Mallory. Priscilla, stop the coach!"

The carriage stopped abruptly, too much so for the comfort of the horses, which protested vigorously; but the Inquisitor kept his eyes fixed on Mallory's face.

It was, above all things, in denial. As if trying, desperately, to wrench something away from itself.

"Mallory, I will be blunt. In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Long May He Reign, I have need of you once more. Mount up!" The Inqusitor rapped at the coach, and to his surprise the door swung open.

Mallory, with no choice, mounted up. But not before spitting in the Inquisitor's face.


	3. Chapter 3

It is understandable that no one should know what happens in an Exterminatus. And yet, if one should be able to defend the Imperium, one must know.

And yet, really, you can't.

You can hear a Tech Priest speaking of oxidation rates and flammable atmospheric conditions and optimal casualty projections. You can watch the torpedoes being loaded, and even the triggering of their tubes; see them blast off, silently into space, to strike the planet beneath.

You can be told of the results, of cities destroyed, oceans vapourised, trillions dead. But the mind can, to an extent, ignore those. They are statistics. You, it is to be hoped, knew none of them personally.

To hear of the results on the ground, though, for people, is something else altogether. One can hear of women with gas masks melted to their faces, howling. One can watch pict scans of children, and fathers alike, their feet melting into cobblestones, and then their hands as they try to claw themselves out.

But you can't really believe it. The mind repels the possibility that these could happen. The reaction, more than shock, or horror, is a surrealist rejection. One of hope, almost, that this can't be caused by a Tech Priest speaking of oxidation rates. That the scent of roasted flesh on the scout probes as they fly back to the docking bay is a hallucination. That this can only be caused by a cackling sorceror of Chaos, laughing as he sacrifices babies and plots against the Universe, the Establishment, your home and family.

Not by his opponents.

And yet, all the same, years of this, decades of this, can get to a man…

The Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic was, of course, delighted to receive the Dr. Prewellyn, and his new patient. It was indeed fortunate, though, that they had met Brother Mallory when they did; as the stable boy remarked dryly, another few turns like their coach had taken, then they'd have to re-open another wing of the infirmary.

'Another wing, young man?' The doctor asked, taking note of the lad's plump cheeks. A well fed monastery, this one.

The young lad replied, stuttering and excited, that the Monastery was playing host to a most exalted guest this evening. A choir of angels.

'Angels?' the patient asked, stepping briskly out of the coach.

'Of death, sir.'

'Ah.' The doctor made the sign of the Aquila; his patient did the same, and turned, slightly embarrassed, as Mallory prostrated himself upon the ground. 'How fortuitous. The Emperor Protects.'

The stableboy, blushing under his cassock, was delighted to tell the travellers of how he had met the Angels, how they had no steeds, how they bore drawn swords _the entire time_, of their bulk, the thunderous clang as their boots struck cobblestones, their erect posture, their steel-grey armour, the flicker of their capes as they stooped through the gates, and the Doctor was counting horses, and found a number of others. A few military saddles, tails cut in Yeomanry fashion. A smattering of draft horses, a far greater mass of oxen.

And several massive footprints ground in the stone cobblestones of the yard. But why, then, hadn't he noticed them on the road? The Angels of Death, it seemed, were trying to travel hidden.

An unnerving prospect.

Nevertheless, the doctor thanked the stableboy for allowing his horses to be accommodated, and trusted that the monastery's Marshal of Horse would take good care of them. He feigned his surprise upon being told that the Marshal of Horse-the very same, yes-was the mendicant beggar they had picked up on the road. They had thought him a stray. Well, it's a small galaxy. Remarkable!

The Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic was, in autumn, always an empty sort of place. Its halls were designed to house many thousands of pilgrims, and the entire brotherhood was to huddle there in winter; but in autumn, the brothers tended to the land, and the guests sadly diminished as the roads became inclement, and the Capital's social season more exciting.

As a result of this, everything echoed. And as the shadows lengthened and the days grew short, everything darkened. The faces of the statutes of the saints grew ever gaunter, and the blazing windows of stained glass dimmed.

As the bells rang for the eighth hour from sunrise, the doctor and his patient were granted access to the Waters. This was a little pool backed out below the monastery, watched by a phalanx of glaring gargoyles in worn white marble. The pair of them hurried down and, when the brothers left them, they stripped down. That is to say, they stripped their weapons.

Every weapon in their combined arsenal was systematically taken apart and bathed in the pool, which turned out to be, even through the doctor's gloves, surprisingly warm, but otherwise not obviously blessed in any way. Priscilla initially objected to this.

'It's brine,' she said shortly.

'Why, yes, it is. But it was brought forth by the blessed Saint Wulferic, so who am I to judge?' The Inquisitor gestured towards the gargoyles. 'Those fellows certainly do.' A gargoyle. A ward against evil spirits. One had its muzzle entirely worn off.

'It will rust my piece.'

'But no. It is sacred. It will do no such thing.' The Inquisitor made a sign of the Aquila over the disassembled trigger guard of his first pistol, and began to make the Incantation of Ordinance.

After some consideration, Priscilla did the same.

Save for the murmuring of prayers and the lapping of water, silence fell.

'Are you sure, doctor, that Mallory should accompany us?' she asked after a while.

'Words were exchanged.' A pause. 'But he will be loyal.'

'Really? There was cursing, spit and old wounds from what I heard.'

'He has no choice. I am an Inquisitor, and I need my best. And he just so happened, in ages past, to be the finest pilot in the sector. And an excellent equestrian. And a master of anything that moved mechanically.' The Inquisitor ticked them off on his fingers. 'I do wonder how these worlds mix the qualities so well.'

'These worlds?'

'The backward ones, yes.'

'And he was these things many years ago. Things have changed.'

'Not really. I daresay the monastic life would have put some humility into him. But they don't make a man Marshal of Horse for nothing.'

'Neither does he go into holy orders for nothing! Lorkas happened, Prewellyn. Lorkas happened.'

'Yes, it did. And that is why I need my finest with me once more.' The Inquisitor reverently took up one of his many knives, and began to bathe the hilt. 'For the Emperor protects-'

A knock on the door.

A flurry of weapons being swept up, aimed.

'The other ones were taken,' Mallory's voice said. 'The Angels required one for each of themselves, and the rest are shut for the season. May I come in?'

Mallory, Brother of the Order of the Blessed St Wulferic, Marshal of Stables, formerly of His Imperial Majesty's Navy, had been remembered by the Inquisitor as tall, dashing and broad shoulders; but, since he used no Juvenat for reasons of his faith, those qualities had been progressively taken from him. He carried in his hands an autopistol, of obviously offworld manufacture, a number of waterskins on his belt, and several magazines of bullets.

'I don't like any of this,' he said, voice trembling slightly. 'But the Emperor's called. I must obey. And I still think I'm a professional.'

He may have been about to say more, before being crushed by Priscilla's embrace. The Inquisitor smiled thinly. 'Your presence will be useful, and I am quite sure that it will be better if willing, and mind that gargoyle.' After a while, they let go of each other.

'I'm sure you would like to know the mission,' Priscilla said, considering the remains of her arsenal. Most of it shone with brine.

Mallory nodded, but first started filling the waterskins from the pool, and even drinking some himself. He choked, but swallowed it. 'The Emperor Protects. Yes, Priss, I would.'

'Well, I don't, so I was hoping we could dunk our master until he tells us.'

The Inquisitor raised his arms in mock surrender. 'Alright. I have been mysterious. But you must know, I suppose.'

'Inquisitor, you should know that my chest's weaker now. If it requires too much breathing smoke…'

'Then I will provide the best inhalers this world has to offer. Trust me, I am a doctor.'

'Right.' Mallory sat down, dangling his legs in the pool, robe darkening with water. 'I'm sure you've worked out that those gargoyles have cameras in 'em.'

'And that you would be so good as to remove the records, yes.'

'Right.' Mallory nodded. 'Now, the assignment. Please.'

The Inquisitor reached into his pocket, and produced a dataslate. 'You must understand,' he said, 'that I cannot utter the name of our enemy aloud. I have done so recently. Foolishly. But here, at least, is as good a place as any to brief you. It is beneath the ground. It is in a sanctum of the God-Emperor.'

Wordlessly, he flicked on the slate. All three of them gazed down. A word flashed onto the screen.

_Barabas._

'This concerns the name there, a lost world, and a tune whose title I cannot recall. And an ending to it all.' They leaned forward, silence around them apart from the Waters. And read.

They would have more travelling to do, and more of the Inquisitor's acolytes to find, and Mallory wondered to himself why the Inquisitor, in this most blessed of sanctums, wore gloves on his hands.

That evening, they dined with Angels.

They sat in the Refectory, dining on excellent bread, cheese and wine. The monks dominated one end of the table, a silent group. The work had been hard and wet, and they had little time for conversation.

The other was similarly subdued. Even a deputation of officers and men of the Forfar and Blackton Yeomanry, with their cherry faces (there to pay respects to their fallen and sample the monastery's excellent red) did not speak. For the two Angels were there, and it did not seem fitting.

They kept their helmets on, and sat bolt upright. They did not eat. They said grace with the rest, drowning out even the gnarled augmentics of the abbot. That was all which separated them from the statues of the saints in the corners. The marble of the statues, in a room lit by flickering torches, was in shadow. It matched that of the Angels perfectly.

The doctor, a brave man, tried to engage them in conversation, asking them why they had travelled so far. He received no response. He tried again, about the varying landscapes of Saggitarix, to which he was not native. Nothing. He was about to speak again when, quite suddenly, they rose as one, bowed to the Abbot (stiffly, at the waist), and departed, feet thundering through the monastery.

Conversation gradually entered the room, like a warm breeze, and the table was soon approaching normality. As dinners often are at monasteries with many guests and good wine, it went on quite late. The doctor learned many fascinating things, including that the Angels were present en route to the Capital, where they intended to pay respects to their fallen comrades. An officer of the Yeomanry remarked, in a surprised tone, that it was dam' like what they were doing themselves. Just less, well…

Eventually, the abbot rose to make a toast to the Emperor, and say the final prayers of the evening. They were just about to reach the Amen, when a voice roared through the halls of the monastery.

'A BROTHER OF A CHAPTER OF THE ADEPTUS ASTARTES IS ENTITLED TO TWO HOURS OF SLEEP PER DAY.'

The entire table froze, mortified.

'THIS IS CONSIDERED LAX IN TIMES OF WAR. BUT THIS WORLD IS AT PEACE.'

Peace… peace…. Peace… the word rolled on, and on.

'YOUR PRACTICES OF WORSHIP DO NOT CONCERN US, MORTALS. DESIST.'

In shocked silence, the entire table did so, and soon went to their beds.

The doctor could not help but reflect to himself that, in paintings and art, the Adeptus Astartes are depicted with their helmets off. They snarl handsome defiance, at the forefront of waves of cheering guardsmen. He wondered to himself the degree to which this was wishful thinking. He did not ponder what they had under their helmets. He did not wish to know.

He could also not help but wonder why he had heard of no such pilgrimages when reading their chapter records.

The doctor's party left early the next morning. They, too, headed for the Capital.

Two men, many miles away, stood on a hilltop, speckled with trees. They carried spades in their hands, had cavalry mounts picketed nearby, and tucked pistols under their mud smeared riding cloaks. One, with an eye patch, had just finished reciting a prayer.

'They did not even give her a decent burial, Mr. Quick!' one of them spat with fury, his hat crumpled in his hands. His moustache bristled. He bristled.

'They did not, Mr. Fix,' the other replied, shaking his head. He closed his battered _Uplifting Primer,_ and tucked it into his coat. 'Indeed they did not.'

On the bare branches above them, crows had gathered. They had been doing so for some days. They had not eaten. This bothered both men.

'And who is the they, Mr. Quick? Hey? Who is this they?' Mr. Fix started pacing furiously. 'The mistress would never-'

Mr. Quick raised a hand to silence him, and pointed. 'That hillock over there, Mr. Fix,' he said. 'You have two eyes. Be so good?'

Mr. Fix whipped out a monocular and scurried over, stepping awkwardly over the field's furrows which, in the rain, were becoming increasingly churned. He gazed down at it. 'I don't see-' he twisted a knob. 'Ah!'

'Anything?' Mr. Quick produced a hip flask from under his cloak. He gazed up at the sky. More rain soon. Damn. And why didn't the crows eat a corpse? Even as rain-bloated as the one they'd found.

'A horseman came here. As the fight happened, he maintained his position. Then he rode off.'

'Any shots fired?'

'No sign, Mr. Quick.' Mr. Fix tucked his glass away. 'But who was it? They had a carriage, and his steed looks to be far too light to be a geno.'

'A witness. Or a suspect. And we have some more riding ahead of us, Mr. Fix.' Mr. Quick turned, tired and breath steaming in the cold, and began to trudge back to the _Standfast_. 'His Grace was right. He is up to something.' He offered his flask to Mr. Fix when he puffed over. Mr. Fix drank greedily.

The crows watched them leave. And, when they thought themselves unseen, they scattered like a cloud.


End file.
